


01:58AM

by saigons



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 15:56:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16140566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saigons/pseuds/saigons
Summary: The bodega cat with five eyes waits for him at the edge of the block, and Doyoung holds his hands out, empty palms to the neon lights."I don't have anything," he says apathetically. The cat has already spent three of its lives trying to guilt trip him into offering a free meal at every opportunity but Doyoung is already damned to the point where he can't be bothered to care for whatever curse the calico hisses at him every night. He's running late and Jaehyun has probably let himself into his apartment which is a worse curse of its own kind.





	01:58AM

**Author's Note:**

> general content warning: varying degrees of gore, violence, and death.
> 
> a love letter to my best and worst years in new york.

The boutique, more of a hallway gallery than a shop in its narrow layout and infinite stillness, is haunted by its proprietor who moves in fluid movements behind a simple wood counter. Doyoung arranges his latest stock in neat little rows along the matte finish of the flattop, taking counts and preparing them to be shelved alongside their matches lining the walls.

A pen drags across printed stationary as he fills in dotted lines left open for each potion's name, another for the date, and the last for specific notes, before pressing the label to the dark amber surface of the glass bottles. It is a small ritual of simple means, but still a step removed from the close of any potion's ceremony.

The final act is the transaction as product is exchanged for profit, and Doyoung lifts his head when the front door chimes at the promise of another purchase. Sickness is cloaked around the looming figure that crosses the threshold, wrapped in the faded pallor of taut skin and weighted in the bruised craters of sunken eyes.

Doyoung spares only a handful of seconds watching his guest before he begins pulling his stock from below the counter, sorting through vials identical in their color but of varying sizes. When he looks up again and the stranger has not moved from the door, it is with a sharper gaze.

"Can I help you?" he asks, voice just as void of emotions as his face, but at his summoning, the patron crosses the boutique to pass a sealed envelope over the counter. Long fingers covered in thin bands of medical tape pull papers free and quick eyes read over slanted script. The ghost of a frown pulls at the corner of Doyoung's lips as he counts the days.

The pen is capped, placed carefully beside labels yet to be filled, and his hands fold over one another as he brings them to rest on top of the counter in consideration. His posture is strict, his expression unreadable, and he turns away to the world beyond the main floor without a word.

When Doyoung emerges from around the doorframe behind the counter, he carries a silver tray with a small porcelain bowl, a printed form, and a thin blade carefully arranged on top. The form is promptly passed over, turned so that the patron may read it right side up as Doyoung's fingers move across the lines of text to indicate each section he references as he explains mechanically from rote memory the procedure and requirements that come with a made to order potion of requested means.

Blessings demand offerings, labor requires sacrifice, something cannot be made out of nothing.

At the finishing flourish of a signature, Doyoung swiftly takes the blade in one hand and his patron's wrist in the other before drawing a deep, clean line from palm to fingertip, peeling the flesh apart expertly with his grasp as both participants watch the blood flow freely into the porcelain bowl below.

Dressing the wound happens in an instant, a wordless and efficient formality in customer service. The Ram's Horn doesn't have a Yelp page but Doyoung's worked hard to put the name in the right mouths. More importantly, he doesn't want to mop the floors of any stray blood that would trail through the shop.

"Come back in four days," he says before turning away again. A chime echoes throughout the boutique, this time with a patron's departure, and the purring of bubbling brews from behind the counter fill an otherwise silent space.

 

 

 

**⌱**

 

 

 

Early September's bite of summer heat is still enough for a thin layer of sweat to collect at the base of Doyoung's back. The only window in his studio is half opened, white fabric fluttering gently against glass as a weak evening breeze filters through his home. One hand curls tightly into his bedsheets as the other continues to work over his own cock with a desperation that makes his movements clumsier. An ambulance wails from the street below as it races through Hell's Kitchen and he answers with a short cry.

The deep arch of his back lifts his chest higher to be kissed by the humid air and his hips find enough leverage to thrust into his hand but his pace stutters in his greed. He moves a hand to his ungraceful halo of hair, pulling firmly at the roots in the same instance he tightens his grip on his cock, driving the need to come with the sharp arousal born from the teasing pain.

It's not enough and a pitched whine escapes as he tries to move his hand faster. There's no rhythm to his impatience, just the frantic repetition of movements that build and build and build. He can feel his forearm begin to seize with an unpleasant tightness but he feels closer to his release so he ignores it in favor of the pressure that intensifies in his core.

"Please, please," he begs in broken moans to the empty room before cursing at the tears collecting at the corner of his eyes as he forces them shut. His hand moves from hair to chest to thigh, anywhere he can reach, digging his fingers into flesh and scratching feverishly at the skin. Each sensation feels wasted when he isn't pushed further into coming.

"Please," he whines again, but his vision fills with a flash of dark irises sharp as daggers, blood stained lips pulled into a cruel smirk, and the faint scatter of freckles across golden cheeks. There is the phantom drag of teeth against the column of his throat, the whisper of a voice laced in honey pressing the promise of damnation into his skin. Doyoung thinks to cry out in protest but his begging takes its place and the guilt of his desires is what finally pushes him to his release, spilling into his own hand with a weak whimper.

His labored breathing steadies by matching the flow of the thin curtain by his window that rises and falls, carried by the midnight air. The exhaustion runs bone deep from a long day of work and he peeks down at his arm that aches not from his annoyingly long solo session but rather from the morning's bloodletting cut still wrapped in tape and gauze.

Doyoung knows better than to prematurely reopen the mirroring thin line on his opposite arm but had he anticipated nearly pulling a muscle because of his sexual frustration, he would have given it more thought before tracing a blade down the young scar that runs from the center of his dominant forearm to his wrist.

He needs to stop ignoring the cum drying on his fingers.

Doyoung doesn't even make it halfway to his bathroom before he's startled by a jarring series of knocking at his door. Shit.

Frozen in place, entirely naked, he waits with the silent prayer that whoever has arrived won't hesitate to leave if he shows no sign of being home. Another ambulance siren rises from below but it can't compete with the threatening knocks that erupt from the door again.

"I know you're in there, Doyoung!"

Shit.

"I was trying to be courteous but I'll let myself in if you won't," Jaehyun shouts, as if Doyoung doesn't have any neighbors. 

"Give me a minute!" he shouts back, because fuck the neighbors— Just because he once drunkenly answered the door naked to a Seamless delivery guy doesn't mean he'll willingly do it for Jaehyun.

Fortunately, Jaehyun isn't in an annoying enough mood to let himself in anyway because Doyoung manages to hastily clean himself up and put on a pair of sweats, but the threat of Jaehyun's impatience means he also gets to look like a fool struggling to pull a shirt over his head while finally opening the door. 

"Oh," he says pathetically.

The smell of ash and lighter fluid tangles itself in Jaehyun's clothes. Unpleasant as it is, it clots the distinct bite of copper that still slowly spreads from the sharp edges where his flesh forms a gorge, deep but narrow at his clavicle. Doyoung hopes the bloodied dress shirt doesn't hide anything worse, but he can't tell with the shadows cast by the suit jacket that is somehow still wearable in it's near immaculacy. Of course Jaehyun would have had the foresight to take it off before getting into whatever trouble he found and he looks as smug about it as Doyoung is annoyed by it.

"Done yet?" Jaehyun asks with a wolfish grin and Doyoung is tempted by the satisfaction of slamming the door in his face.

He clicks his tongue instead before walking back to his bathroom to pull out his first aid kid. The quick succession of the door closing and Jaehyun searching through his kitchen feels sickeningly routine, and even showing up wounded in the dead of night is part of a mundane ritual shared between the two of them. Doyoung summons him to the bathroom and another familiar ritual begins as Jaehyun perches himself on the toilet seat lid and unbuttons his shirt.

Doyoung kneels on the floor between Jaehyun's legs, cleans the wounds with measured motions and a neutral expression, but he still feels underlying concern at the gash dangerously close to Jaehyun's throat and the deeper, gaping lines across his abdomen. He almost makes a joke about guns and knife fights to remind himself of the normalcy of the situation but when he looks up after pouring a potion into the wounds before they're stitched, he falters under the critical gaze fixed on his wrapped forearm.

"Long day?" The remark sounds unbalanced in its bitter humor, but Doyoung nods in response, not bothering to challenge Jaehyun.

"Same as you it seems," he replies, fluidly piercing skin in neat patterns that will ensure the cleanest, most efficient healing, even without the aid of his potions.

Jaehyun returns a short huff of laughter and Doyoung isn't prepared for the tender smile that pulls at Jaehyun's lips. Perhaps he is still lightheaded from the chaos of the night's events, still caught up in the disorder of making it out to live another day. Doyoung doesn't know how else to justify the boyish appearance of an often pristinely presented man, but when he sees hands reach for his freshest bloodletting wound he readily offers it to Jaehyun, foolishly forgetting cares for vulnerability or sacrifice. What follows is the duality of gentle hands and a burning pain.

Doyoung bites through a sharp hiss, and his hand curls into a fist, but the rest of his body remains still, yielding, already having memorized that to be in the care of Jaehyun's pain is to be rewarded with power.

"You look like you needed it," Jaehyun says without guilt but heavy with his own fatigue. He's right, the pain is only temporary and Doyoung already feels the less potent spheres of his magic recharge after his day of restless laboring.

"You could have waited," he scolds, but returns to stitching lacerations, allowed to finish in a silence that is not suffocating like the one from before. A final layer of disinfecting solution is wiped over the skin that leaves a caustic bite but Jaehyun endures as he always does and reaches for a hand towel to pat his body down.

"Don't call me high maintenance, but do you have a clean one by chance?" He asks with a smug expression before holding the towel out to Doyoung's face.

The cum he rushed to wipe off his hands and cock earlier have dried on the pale blue fabric and he knows better than to give Jaehyun the satisfaction of looking absolutely mortified but he hasn't learned to control his body enough to stop his face from flushing a bright, unforgiving red.

"Fuck off," he snarls before rising off the floor to pull another hand towel from the cabinet to throw at Jaehyun's face, which he ends up catching with obnoxious laughter. Doyoung escapes to the kitchen to sanitize his hands and dispose of the remnants of his charity. Leave it to a literal demon to spit in the face of saintly doings.

"I'm leaving!" Jaehyun calls halfway out the door, wearing one of Doyoung's faded college shirts he wasn't offered tucked into his nice dress slacks, but before Doyoung can even call him out on it, Jaehyun blows him a kiss and immediately closes the door behind him.

 

 

 

**⌱**

 

 

 

Silla is a kingdom and coven where weathered hands unfold and count the modest dollar bills before pressing them into a child's grasp. Doyoung hurries away to fulfil his weekly task of retrieving the tall, gilded canister of tea from the witch several blocks away, just at the edge of where the storefront signs bleed from chipped Hangul to colorful Bengali script. His hair is roughly tousled on the way out but he holds in his complaints after a charmed hard candy finds its way into his mouth.

The Los Angeles sky marbles purple, pink, and orange while he runs to the cement complex illuminated with flickering neon that casts colorful hues across his face as he climbs the stairs to the top floor.

The coven meeting is always vibrant like the city that harbors it, like the family that facilitates and participates in it. Silla is a harmony of immigrant and multi-generational witches keeping their connection to the magic of their homeland strong for their own survival. Joined together like a family if not in blood, then in blood sacrifice, they cohabitate the space with a shared goal of perpetuating history and tradition.

Doyoung hides away from siblings who do not share his name and peers into the kitchen where the tea he delivered begins to brew under the careful attention of an uncle, mindful of the extra cups pulled down from the cupboard.

This uncle's demon is joining tonight to seal a contract with his son.

Doyoung rolls the hard candy between his tongue and the ridged roof of his mouth, lips glossy and sugar coated, still hungry for something more.

 

 

 

At sixteen, a demon leaves a seal in the center of his chest. Doyoung cries out in pain but Jaehyun's hand pressed to his sternum doesn't relent as ancient words distort the air around them. The smell of his own flesh burning causes his panic to rise, and he cries out even more, overwhelmed by and sensitive to the sensations both outside the thin border of his skin and every cell of his body trapped below.

He hates the sound of his own screaming but every time he tries to bite back whatever rises from his throat, the agony is amplified and he has no other choice than to listen to his voice crack and run dry.

A ring trapping intricate lines is branded onto his body but the eyes of his coven burn more cruelly than any hell bound mark could. He feels the weight of their expectation seep into the marrow, and the promise of both ancestor and legacy seize his blood. His soul is condemned but his body is a vessel of magic he will spend the rest of his life tending to with diligence and devotion. The sacrifices of coven, his family— past, present, and emerging— have culminated in this coming of age.

He is no longer trapped in the liminal spaces of restless, unsettled magic, but when filling his stomach with the tea he was once tasked to deliver, gilded and shimmering like the canister that held it, he finds he cannot shake the feeling of a gaping absence.

 

 

 

The air is thick with the aroma of gasoline and carne asadas. Jaehyun's car rolls through a stop sign and Doyoung feels electricity cut through the humid breeze, only thinly padded by the muffled sound of a bassline from whatever track is the flavor of the month. Fat and sauce drip down the protruding bones of his fingers and he licks at them without guilt, catching his own smug expression in the reflection of Jaehyun's sunglasses as he approaches with annoyance snapping in the summer air.   

"Take the bus here, you little shit?" He asks before snatching the taco out of Doyoung's hands, making a face at the mess already spilling out of the edges. Doyoung doesn't answer, just wipes his hand off with a rough napkin that scratches at his skin more than soaks the oil coating his hands. The sun inches towards the horizon and his cheeks are flushed with the promise of a burn. He reaches out towards Jaehyun's face to take his sunglasses but his barely cleaned hand is swatted away by a faster hand and a vexed shout.

"Your brother doesn't sacrifice a single thing to me, so you better give me a good reason why I'm out here doing his dirty work like an errand boy."

Doyoung holds out another sandpaper napkin that Jaehyun takes thanklessly.

"Because you missed me."

The last time he had seen Jaehyun was during the Lunar New Year ceremony and even then, they were too caught up in the affairs of the rest of the coven to so much as say more than a few words to each other. He genuinely wasn't expecting to see Jaehyun till the Harvest moon but that doesn't mean he finds any less satisfaction in the twisted curl of Jaehyun's lips as he gets ready to snarl a cruel remark. Doyoung knows Jaehyun isn't capable of missing anyone, no one destined for eternal damnation should be allowed to, but at the crossroads hordes of demons parade under the illusion that their freedom can be bought. Doyoung isn't stupid enough to believe Jaehyun is one of them, just as he isn't stupid enough to believe he could ever miss Jaehyun either.

He cuts off whatever it is Jaehyun is about to say by tilting his head back and staring into the empty sky, showing off an uneven, red horizon below his chin. With his throat bared by his head thrown back, it stretches out the skin and when he swallows he swears he can feel the cut threatening the peel apart from where his mother had fused it together.

"He did this last week. Still can't use a knife for shit, but it's not like Dahee cares— I mean, she assured us that nearly killing me would count as a greater sacrifice." His laughter is hollow and hurts but he doesn't look away from the pale blue sky, waits for the reaching brightness of the sun to fleck his vision with fuzzy spots of black and white before the light is too much to handle. When he finally lowers his head, he stares back at his reflection still distorted by the curve and color of Jaehyun's sunglasses. He wishes he could at least have the satisfaction of searching for whatever emotion hides behind the lenses.

"So now what?" Jaehyun asks which feels less like he's offering control to a 17 year old and more like a cheap attempt at pity, so Doyoung answers with a shrug, buying his time and a bottle of coke from the food truck at the center of the parking lot. Jaehyun steals a sip, keeps the bottle, still waiting for an answer even as Doyoung holds his hand out expecting its return.

"It doesn't matter, I just need a break, so he can find someone else to gut. It's not like we're all going with him to college too— Dahee sure as hell won't."

"But what about you, you're not going to take from him either? It might be your last chance for a while."

Another car pulls into the lot, a small family spills out. Jaehyun scoffs at what must be two young siblings as they try to wrestle each other into the scalding asphalt. The universe has a sense of humor, but the jokes have always been at Doyoung's expense. He doesn't bother telling Jaehyun the simile of the children only works if one of them ends up strangling the other to death.

"I don't need to." He finally answers flatly, stealing back his coke to greedily finish it off before Jaehyun can take it away from him again.

Everything is sticky. The humid air that hangs over his skin, the syrupy coke caught in the fine lines of his lips, the juice of fatty beef that clings to his palms. He feels gross and suffocated by the heat even in the open air far out enough to forget he lives in a congested city.

"Drowning would feel better than this," he says to no one in particular.

Jaehyun answers anyway.

"Then let’s go to the beach."  

 

 

 

**⌱**

 

 

 

Doyoung's coat is charmed to repel water, but his head remains exposed to the rain that continues to pour ceaselessly from above so his hair is soaked beyond saving. A cold hand knocks against Taeyong's heavy oak door with enough urgency and annoyance to bruise knuckles. The minutes continue to draw out until he nearly tumbles into the apartment with his first thought being a panicked plea to save the Thai food from hitting the floor, but Taeyong steadies him enough that the only disaster is Doyoung's hair and shoes making a mess of the narrow Persian rug lining the hallway.  

"What took you so long?" Taeyong has the audacity to ask with a cheshire grin and Doyoung nearly hurls himself into the nearest 700 year old vase out of spite.

"I'll take my leave now," an unfamiliar figure says behind Taeyong. His smile is sincere to the point that Doyoung finds it unsettling, but his politeness does not extend far enough to wait for proper introductions as he hurries out the door after a final goodbye to their host.

"I thought you said you finished doing readings for the day?" Doyoung asks as soon as they begin climbing the stairs to the living room to unpack their meal.

"It was an emergency," Taeyong sighs, draping himself across his chaise with melodrama befitting of the house he resides in. The parlor Taeyong works out of below them is far more exaggerated with its golden frames, crystal balls, and eternally burning candles, but his personal living quarters are no less decadent. Three chandeliers of coordinated sizes illuminate the room while fine art and ancient objects line the walls. Even the empty wine glass at the edge of the coffee table doesn't look out of place in the small palace hidden within a brownstone.

Despite his dedication to luxury, Taeyong has never been one to turn up his nose at oil stained takeout boxes. Doyoung offers to grab them plates from the kitchen but Taeyong waves him off before retrieving them himself and setting the empty porcelain down on the table with a flourish, quickly returning to his spot amongst feather filled cushions.

"I heard Jaehyun's back in town," he starts casually, but Doyoung can feel his critical gaze even though he refuses to acknowledge it in favor of plating their food.

"You heard or you saw?" Taeyong may emphasize the performativity of his psychic prowess for his customers but that doesn't make him any less talented in untangling meaning in the wisps of smoke that rise from incense and the fractured light bouncing within crystalline spheres.

"Both," he answers lazily, and Doyoung doesn't press further in a weak prayer that Taeyong won't either. He didn't offer to come for dinner tonight because he wanted to be crucified over his curry.

"So? Have you seen him yet?" Taeyong asks as he leans over to grab a plate of flat noodles, still peering at Doyoung who still refuses to look at him.

Doyoung answers with a noncommittal hum, quickly filling his mouth with food to save any vulnerable pieces of himself for the inevitable evening of drunken conversation. Taeyong likes the challenge of preying open the rigid facade of Doyoung when he's sober, so he waits with rapt attention for the smallest lines to spider web in Doyoung's resolve before he turns them into yielding fissures.  

He tries again, "Kun told Jungwoo," and the first line splits. Doyoung finally looks up at him, a flicker of bittersweet acknowledgment at the two names that say enough for him to nod along lamely as if he's already known better. The sequence is this: Jaehyun is here for business with Kun, Kun needs to insure himself through Jungwoo, Jungwoo spins secrets with Taeyong. They've all played this game before and Doyoung has never been able to determine if it's a matter of self-loathing or self-preservation that he refuses to rupture the cycle with his own intervention.

A grateful sigh escapes when Taeyong finally takes mercy and offers him a glass of red wine flecked with silver.

 

 

 

Losing himself in the company of Taeyong is a purgatory of his own making. They've known each other for too long, but the shared years insure their security in the face of vulnerability. When the room fills with sparkling laughter and their arms curl around each other, it is with an untroubled heart that Doyoung smiles at the soft kiss pressed to his brow when he leans away from the chaise to refill their glasses.

Doyoung doesn't share any of Taeyong's gift for precognition, barely understands his coven's own form of divination, but it doesn't take a connection to the cosmos to know when Taeyong's hand falls to the small of his back that their evening of good humor is about to be interrupted.

"Have you decided what you're giving him yet?" Taeyong's voice is still light with the echo of their laughter but Doyoung is immediately drawn to the misplaced melancholy that hides beneath his tongue. "I don't mind doing it again, Doyoung, it's been nearly two years," he continues.

In an old moment trapped away by time, Doyoung hated Taeyong, a spoiled child of old money passed down through a bloodline of con artists. Delicate fingers that have never known the meaning of labor or sacrifice would create and destroy by warping tales of the future for profit. Doyoung once dreamt taking a knife to Taeyong's body and letting the thickening blood of the deepest wounds slick his hands.

Years later when that hatred had unraveled and frayed into trust and adoration, it was Taeyong who bared his throat first and Doyoung's hands collected the sacrifice flowing from tender flesh— an echo of an old vision without the malice of their youth but just as selfishly driven. Doyoung has no interest in tracing the fading scar hidden beneath Taeyong's jawline, even at the other's insisting.

"I still have time," Doyoung replies, and it is as much a plea for Taeyong to drop the issue as it is a finality in his refusal.

There are still enough moons between now and his birthday to decide what he will sacrifice to Jaehyun for an annual ritual honoring the securing of his magic. It is another formal reminder that he will always be weaker, always vulnerable to Jaehyun's strength and will as a vessel of hell. These may be transactions of mutual profit in which Doyoung has spent his lifetime fighting to stay ahead, guided by the maxim that the ends justify the means, but what remains are haunting moments suspended in shaking corners of his memory where he knows he is slipping.

"Who else is there?" Taeyong pushes even when he already knows the answer. It's just a matter of getting Doyoung to say it out loud as if his own admittance will be the beaming ray of enlightenment he needs, but Doyoung has infallibly been stubborn in the face of Taeyong's meddling and answers by pressing a filled glass into prying hands. A choir of car horns blare in the distance but Taeyong doesn't startle, only waits for a reply, just as stubborn in the face of Doyoung's denial.

"I still have time," he repeats.

The hour that follows is a long silence passed between them, meditation smoothing the rise and fall of tensions. A streetlamp outside flickers before it dies, but the electric hum still carries and syncs with the wards placed by Doyoung as a lasting housewarming gift.

He quickly turns away to avoid catching his own reflection in the contrasting darkness on the other side of the window, but is only greeted by Taeyong on the cusp of falling asleep with an empty glass held protectively to his chest, hooded eyes fixed on a seemingly empty space of the room.

Even with lips still wet with the telling of the day's lies and hands that have memorized the manipulating of cards, Taeyong elicits a fiercely protective instinct in Doyoung that is layered with guilt and greed. He reaches out to carefully release the fragile stem from a loosening grasp and sets the glass aside before kneeling down in front of Taeyong with a hand pressed to his hair.

"Do you see something?" he asks softly, and Taeyong answers with a gentle shake of his head and tired smile that Doyoung matches with one of his own. "Good."

He tidies the space, gathering empty containers and plates, tossing what he can into the rubbish and washing the rest as quietly as possible. Taeyong is already asleep before he can tease Doyoung for voluntarily playing housekeeper, but Doyoung tells him goodnight out of habit before letting himself out.

It's barely past midnight and the station is still littered with other travelers while the display reads that the next train is in 6 minutes. Suddenly the platform is empty and only the screeching of the subway rats keep Doyoung company as he tries to read metaphysical meanings in the patches of trash on the tracks. It tells him to check his phone for the first time all evening but when he opens his lock screen, the only notification listed is a spam text asking him to sign up for a new data plan.

Divination has never been a skill meant for him. He moves away from the edge to sit on a metal bench somehow still cold even under the stagnant, stifling air of the underground, and looks up again at the scrolling marquee.

The next train is 46 minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! this piece is near and dear to my heart. i've been working on it in bits and pieces since about may so i'm excited to finally share the culmination of a lot of disparate thoughts. i have an [aesthetics board](https://www.pinterest.com/housewyatt/0158am/) and [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/e-phemerals/playlist/5I1ylwxou0Rps2FF5JagSI?si=6P4im9P6R1ar6RxjAbeZGw) set up to help enrich the experience if thats something that might interest you too. my [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/_saigons) is also open for any questions.
> 
> i'm on twitter [@_saigons](https://twitter.com/_saigons)


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